


hard to breath when you're touching me there (when you're kissing me there)

by LadyAlice101



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x03 spoilers, Cousin Incest, Dirty Talk, F/M, Half Sibling Incest, Pol!Jon, but it may or may not be mentioned in the throes of passion, heavy smut, post 8x03, post Battle for the Dawn, which isn't ROUGH but it isn't GENTLE either, which we all know isn't true
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 20:09:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18667516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAlice101/pseuds/LadyAlice101
Summary: “Why did you want to be the one to tell me?” she asks instead of replying, fingers playing with the ends of his hair. It’s soft, like she expected.He intakes his breath sharply, eyes widening slightly. Will he tell her, she wonders? Will he admit his truth?“I wanted . . .” He pauses, licking his lips, his eyes drifting down to her lips then back up to her eyes. Finally, he admits, “I wanted to see if you felt the same relief I did.”//Just some good old fashioned post-battle confessions which leads to some hot and heavy desktop sex.8x03 spoilers.





	hard to breath when you're touching me there (when you're kissing me there)

**Author's Note:**

> Now look I want sansa to get some gentle lovin’ as much as the next person, esp for her first time with jon, but sometimes you’re just in the mood to write jon fucking sansa into oblivion on desktop and that just the way it be 
> 
> i originally wrote this as an 8x02 missing scene but i didn't finish it in time so i changed it around a bit to turn it into a post 8x03 fic. if it seems a lil clunky the thats why, but i got it as polished as poss! 
> 
> unbeta'd

Sansa’s hands are shaking and she can’t get them to stop.

Water sloshes over the edge of the cup she’s holding; it’s rim hits her teeth as she tries to drink and soothe her parched throat.

Darkness has fallen, but the promise of sleep brings no comfort. They’ve spent all day clearing and burning bodies, all day stitching the wounded, counting the dead. It had made her numb following the battle, had made every thought clear from her except _eighty seven bodies, eighty eight bodies, eighty nine bodies,_ or _stitch in, stich out, wipe away blood, stitch in, stitch out._ But now she has no distraction.

Now every gust of wing makes her shudder, every scratch on the ground makes her jump, every blink of her eyes is the seared image of a wight right before her.

Her breathing is too harsh, she’s aware, and her vision is blurred. She can feel her heart slamming against her ribcage but no mater of calming thoughts slow it down.

A sharp rap on the door makes a scream rip from her throat.

Jon pushes the door open, eyes wild and frantic as he reassures her over the sound of her shout; “It’s just me Sansa, it’s just me!”

A sob replaces her scream but that’s okay because only a moment later Jon has her wrapped in his arms. He’s clean now of blood and dirt, like she is, though when she’d glimpsed him earlier in the day he’d been covered head to toe in all manner of foul things.

Sansa clings to him, clings to his shirt, digs her fingers in his shoulder, gasps against his throat; he, in turn, tangles his fingers in her hair, paws at her waist, and whispers in her ear, “You’re alright, I can’t believe you’re okay, I thought I’d never see you again.”

They part from each other only so Jon can frantically pat at her, checking to make sure she’s okay; she doesn’t even realize that she’s doing the same to him until her hands come to rest on his face and she can see them herself.

Then they are back in each other arms.

His presence grounds her and suddenly, suddenly, she can breathe again; her lungs fill with much needed oxygen, the weight that had been sitting so firmly on her chest is lifted just enough that she stops crying.

They stay like that for seconds, minutes, hours, Sansa doesn’t know. All she knows is that the longer they stay like this, attached to each other, the easier it is to stay upright, the easier facing tomorrow feels.

“I heard that – the crypts,” Jon rasps into her temple.

Sansa shudders against him, but he doesn’t move an inch away from her.

“Yes,” she says, her voice muffled by his shoulder, “yes they were – our family – gods, Jon, Rickon must have been there, my mother – father . . .”

He crushes her tighter to his chest, his own breathing going from ragged to stilted.

“It’s alright, you’re okay now Sansa,” he says, voice breaking half way through her name. He’s shaking, she realizes. “Sansa . . . I -.”

“Bran told you,” she murmurs. Perhaps she should have left him say it himself, but he sounds so lost, so heartbroken; she can spare him saying the truth of his parentage aloud, if it lifts any burden from him.

He pulls back from her slightly. “ _You knew?_ ”

“I – yes, Bran told Arya and I before you arrived.”

Some of the desperation leaves his grasp, he’s no longer clutching at her, no longer fisting her skirts, and instead he almost slumps against her.

“I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

Sansa isn’t sure she heard him correctly. She isn’t sure what it implies. Why would he want to tell her? Why would he care so much?

“Jon,” she says, smoothing her hand over the freshly washed curls at the nape of his neck, with the intention of asking him to clarify.

He pulls back from her before she can, abruptly, almost ripping himself from the circle of her arms; then he shoves his hands under his armpits tightly and turns to the fire.

She has whiplash from his sudden shift in attitude, but she doesn’t press him. If there were something he wanted to say, then he would say it, she’s sure.

He doesn’t, though, instead turning to the hearth, his damp curls loose and falling over his face. Sansa stands beside him, staring into the crackling flames.

It’s funny, she thinks, that has no fear of these flames. Last night, she had watched Dothraki arakhs light up and watched them be snuffed out; she’d watched Jon and Daenerys atop their dragons and watched them breath fire over an undead army; she’d come out of the crypts to Winterfell burning, her home burning; and yet, now, when it had brought such terror last night, now all she thinks is that it’s nice to be warm.

“You asked me if I have any faith in you the other day,” Sansa says lightly. Now is probably not the time, she realizes belatedly, when his jaw clenches and he braces his hands against the mantle.

He doesn’t look up from the fire as he bites out, “Change your mind, did you?”

Irritation builds up in her immediately, and she’s about to retort scathingly when she notices the harsh slant of his shoulders. He’s readying himself for a fight; she recognizes his posture, his tone of voice. His hand clenches against the mantle the longer she goes without answering, and all frustration leaves her as she realizes that she’s _hurt his feelings._ She’d offended him by not having faith that he’d not fallen prey to Daenerys. There’s a different twinge of irritation there – how was _she_ supposed to know that he’d taken her advice, when he’d been so condescending before he’d left for Dragonstone – but she ignores it in favour of being honest with him. It’s time they do that, she knows.

“Jon,” she says, and she can’t help the little bit of exasperation that leaks into her tone.

He winces, then looks up to her. He doesn’t apologize, though she hadn’t expected it.

“I spoke with Daenerys,” Sansa offers

His face slips into a careful mask; Sansa can’t believe she hadn’t seen it before. It seems so obvious, now. He doesn’t reply, though again she hadn’t expected it. That was something she’d done too: avoid speaking unless necessary. The less you talk, the less opportunity there is for someone to realize something’s wrong.

“It was very . . . enlightening.”

There must be something to her tone, because Jon’s eyes narrow in what she thinks is anger. “Did she threaten you?” he asks.

An interesting insight into Jon’s perception of Daenerys. With that one line, Sansa knows she’s right. She crosses one arm across her belly, her other hand coming to her mouth where her fingers rub her bottom lip, a small smile playing.

“Not outright,” she replies, pretending not to notice Jon’s gaze on her mouth, pretending not notice the way it makes her stomach flutter. She lets her hand drop. His gaze doesn’t. “You didn’t answer me when I asked why you bent the knee.”

Jon frowns and finally looks away. She wonders if she’ll get the truth this time.

“I didn’t think you should have to ask,” he says finally.

So she _had_ hurt his feelings. She doesn’t feel particularly bad about it; she wishes, in fact, that Jon had known her well enough to understand why she couldn’t just completely disbelieve everything she’d seen and heard in favour of trusting that it was all lies.

“And you couldn’t just tell me the truth?” she challenges.

This time it’s he that doesn’t rise to the bait; instead he slumps in his chair, his eyes closing and his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “What made you realize?”

“Daenerys, actually,” Sansa replies, letting her anger ebb away. This is what they need: honesty. “You’ve turned out to be a surprisingly good liar.”

“Your Lord Father taught me well,” he says bitterly.

She’s not sure what to do, not really, but she puts a comforting hand on his shoulder and that’s enough for him to turn from the fireplace and let himself be swept up in her arms again.

He doesn’t cry, but his body heaves and shudders and he burrows his nose in her neck and weaves the fingers of one hand into her hair and clutches at her skirts with the other.

“Gods, Sansa,” he groans against her, “I don’t – I could have died – you could have died – why didn’t I tell you?”

“It’s alright, Jon,” she sooths, “I know, I would have known.”

He continues to mutter against her, mostly repeating himself, though she doesn’t always hear him, but she continues to reassure him.

Jon quiets down after a minute or two, though his breath is still hot as it pants into her throat. Suddenly, he rears back from her to grasp her head between his hands, his eyes intense on hers as he swears with more vehemence than she expected, “Winterfell is yours. No one else’s.”

Sansa curls her hands around his wrists, hoping that he can see that she is as earnest as he is, hoping that she knows that she is telling him her absolute truth.

“Winterfell is _ours,_ Jon. We took it back together. It belongs to _us._ ”

He pauses, his eyes searching her face, then carefully he says, “And to Arya and Bran.”

She’s not entirely sure what he wants her to say. Honesty is best, she decides, because it’s worked well for her so far tonight. “It’s their home,” Sansa says slowly. “And I would have them stay here with us forever. But it’s mine and yours. No one else’s.”

“Mine and yours?” he repeats, a little dumbfounded, licking his lips.

“You are its King,” Sansa says quietly, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. “And I am its Lady. Ours, Jon.”

He turns his head slightly, pausing, then turns it further so that his lips brush against her palm. His eyes find hers, burning and intense and his warm breath pants against her hand.

It seems inevitable, the way this is going. Until Bran had told her the truth, she’d not ever dared hope . . . and then he’d returned with Daenerys, but now standing here with him she can’t help but feel like this is the way it was always going to go.

Inevitable.

She steps closer to him again, testing what he will do, but he doesn’t move away. Instead his fingers curl around her wrist and guide her hand to lay against his shoulder. Inevitable.

His hands come down to settle on her waist. He doesn’t pull her any closer. She doesn’t mind, not really. She’s been blind until now, but she can see now that he feels the same way she does. She’ll be more comfortable if she makes the first move, anyway.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” he murmurs to her, though his eyes are definitively dropped to her mouth.

“Why did you want to be the one to tell me?” she asks instead of replying, fingers playing with the ends of his hair. It’s soft, like she expected.

He intakes his breath sharply, eyes widening slightly. Will he tell her, she wonders? Will he admit his truth?

“I wanted . . .” He pauses, licking his lips, his eyes drifting down to her lips then back up to her eyes. Finally, he admits, “I wanted to see if you felt the same relief I did.”

Sansa, for all her wit, can’t think of a single thing to say to that. She searches his face, to make sure he’s saying what she thinks he’s saying. He looks determined, though there’s nervousness in the crinkle of his eyes and the tightness of his mouth.

The fire crackle’s beside them as Sansa makes her decision. There’s nothing she has to say, anyway. She’d much prefer to show him.

In one fluid motion, she closes the small remaining distance between them and brings her lips to his in a hard kiss. There’s no hesitation on his end, either, his arms curling tightly around her waist as he returns her fervor with his own.

“I do,” she gasps as he catches her bottom lip between his teeth, “I do, I’m so relieved, Jon.”

Jon slants his mouth over hers again and his hands rush up and down her back, tangling in the ends of her hair, cupping the base of her neck. He’s greedy with her, and he takes and takes, but he gives and gives and gives, too, gives more than he takes.

He spins them around and pushes her back until her thighs hit her table.

His fingers make her skin burn, and his lips coax the most delicious heat in her belly, which in turns makes the most outrageous noises slip from her mouth; it would embarrass her, if each noise didn’t make Jon kiss her harder, didn’t make him groan too, didn’t make filthy praise spout from him.

“Do you like that, Sansa, I know you do, you sound so good when you moan like that for me, fuck, you have no idea what you’re doing me, seven hells, Sansa, you feel so good, you feel _so_ good.”

Under his careful encouragement her fingers deftly undo the laces holding together his godsawful jerkin - seriously, if he needed a new one, she would have happily sewn one together, where did he even _get_ such ugly clothes. He pulls away from her to slide the leather from his body, then kicks it underneath the table.

He cups a hand behind her knee and hitches it up over his hip so he can rest in the cradle of her thighs. Sansa shoves her hands between their tightly pressed bodies so she can start to unlace the front of his woolen tunic.

He groans against her throat, “No, wait, wait,” even as his hands start to ruck up her skirts.

“What?” she asks, breathless, continuing to undo the laces of his tunic, “what’s wrong?”

“I wanted -,” he groans again as his hands finds the bare skin on her thigh where her woolen socks stop. “I wanted to do this right. I wanted to marry you first, I wanted to make it good for you, I wanted to be – gentle – oh, _fuck.”_

Her hands finally come in contact with his bare skin, pushing his tunic over his shoulders and to the ground, which is what makes him stutter. His own hands renew their exploration up her thighs, making her head fall back with gasps of, “I don’t care, I don’t care.”

“You don’t care, huh?” he asks, lowly, a dirty smile on his face as his fingers slide under the hem of her smallclothes. “You don’t care how I touch you? You want me to fuck you, right here against the table?”

She gasps her acquiescence and he spins her around to undo the laces on the back of her dress. He growls as he makes no headway, then rips it open. The cold air hits her back and makes her skin prick with awful memories.

“No, wait, Jon, wait.” He ignores her, or perhaps doesn’t hear her, and continues to pull open her dress, but her desperate plea of, “Jon, stop,” is heeded immediately.

He steps back from her and his hands drop to his sides. She turns around slowly, holding her dress up against her chest. There’s guilt and regret etched deeply onto his face.

“I’m sorry, Sansa, I’m so sorry. I won’t touch you again, I swear.”

Sansa tries to calm her beating heart, letting the fear that has iced her veins melt away as Jon follows her command so thoroughly.

“Well, I don’t want _that_ ,” she says lightly and takes a deep breath to try and regain her balance. Jon isn’t _him._ Jon would never hurt her ( _well,_ she thinks mildly as she looks up and down his shuddering body, _not if I don’t want him to,_ which she might, if the pleasure she derived from the sharp tugs on her hair was any indication). They could have died last night. She doesn’t want to sleep through one more night where she doesn’t know what it’s like for him to take her. “Just . . . not from behind, okay?”

He nods slowly, and promises, “Whatever you want, Sansa, whatever you want,” but she can tell that he doesn’t want to touch her again.

Well, no, that’s not true. He _won’t_ touch her again.

Sansa slips from the desk to take his hand. He looks to her, his brows pulled together with guilt.

She rubs her thumb over his hand. “I _want,_ ” she says slowly, so he knows she means it, “well, firstly I want you to kiss me. Then I want you to get me back up on this table and I want you to show me how it’s supposed to be done.”

“On the table, hm?” he says quietly, stepping back in to her embrace. “That’s rather debauched for a lady.”

Sansa noses against his temple. “Wait ‘til I tell you what else I’ve imagined doing with you.”

He rears back from her, eyes wide. “Imagined?” he stammers. “ _Tell me_.”

She smiles and kisses him. “I’ll tell you after we take our kingdom back again,” she promises him. “Consider it your reward.”

“Seven hells, Sansa,” he mutters, leaning in to press a hard kiss to her mouth. “You’re making me crazy.”

To demonstrate his point, she steps from the circle of his arms to let her dress fall to the ground.

“I can’t believe you ripped that,” she says primly, to hide how scared she is about baring her body. “I only just made it.”

He doesn’t take the bait, his eyes fixed to her chest. She has the inexplicable urge to cover her breasts, which she does with her arms. He looks back up to her.

“There’s a lot of – scars . . .”

Her voice drops off in the wake of the hunger in his eyes. She recognizes it, for the amount of times she’s seen it in men’s eyes, but it doesn’t scare her now, not when it’s Jon. Now, she feels properly desired, and like she might just be about to be worshipped.

She sits herself back up on the table.

“Not from behind,” he says. “Tell me to stop if I doing anything else you don’t like, alright?”

“Alright,” she says shyly. “Can I – what if there’s something I _do_ like?”

“Tell me that, too,” he says eagerly.

“Well, I liked - . . . I liked the way you were talking to me before.”

He smiles slightly. “I liked that, too.”

Jon reaches out to touch her knees, and Sansa immediately fumbles for the laces on his breeches.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Jon murmurs, then steps towards her as he breeches fall to his ankles. He kicks them away, now only his small clothes, like her. Her hands dance over his smooth chest, catching on his variety of scars, feeling his heart as it shudders against his chest. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

He kisses her again, gentler this time, but there’s no less passion, no less desire.

“You walked through the gates at Castle Black and you brought me back to life,” he tells her as her hand pauses its exploration of his fatal scar. “Gods, I wanted to fuck you even when I thought you were my sister.”

Like Lannister’s, her mind whispers, but this is hardly true. They’ve borne their shame, they’ve let it torment them, and never once did they act upon it, even though it seems so obvious now that her affections and desires were always reciprocated. They bore it all this time, and now they’ve been rewarded; he isn’t her brother. She isn’t his sister.

And she wants him to show her exactly how that’s true.

“Show me,” she says, “show me, Jon.”

So he does.

He ruts his hips into hers as she wraps her arms around his shoulders and moans.

“You feel so good,” he whispers, “fuck, Sansa, I’m not even inside you and you feel so good.”

His hands and hips encourage her to move her own, to arch her spine; pleasure builds just from the pressure of his hard cock against her still clothed mound.

“Lay back,” Jon says as he mouths at her neck, “lay down sweet girl.”

She does, looking at him curiously. He makes no move to remove his final piece of clothing, even though she knows that he’s aroused. Instead he pulls off her smallclothes, baring her completely before him.

Sansa still doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, but then his mouth is on her and all thoughts vanish completely from her and she thinks nothing, feels nothing but his tongue as it swipes up her slit, as he works her nub, as he pushes a finger inside her.

Her hands clench in his hair and pull tight as he finds a particularly sharp rhythm that has her bucking her hips so much he has to use his other arm to hold her down.

“Such a good girl,” he’s saying against her, “you’re doing so good, sweet girl, so good for me. I’m going to make you peak with my mouth, are you going to come for your bastard brother?”

Sansa cries out as she peaks under his ministrations, her stomach burning with pleasure, her toes curling around the edge of the table and her fingers pulling _hard_ on Jon’s hair. He licks at her gently as she comes down from her high, her breath hitching each time he runs his tongue over her stimulated nub.

Jon stops after a few moments, then sidles up her body to press a kiss to her lips. The tang on his lips is _her,_ she realizes after a few lazy seconds.

“I kind of can’t believe you didn’t kick me off you when I said I was your brother,” he admits, giving her another kiss.

She huffs a laugh. “I kind of can’t either,” she agrees.

“Really?” he asks slyly, nipping at her jaw. “Because I think you liked it.”

She’s never going to admit that that _might_ be true, but it doesn’t matter because Jon is distracted quickly enough. His hand finds the space between her legs again, his gaze travelling down her body to watch as he slides his finger inside her again.

“I want to do that again,” he sighs, “I want to make you peak with my fingers.”

“Oh, gods, _Jon_.”

He’s slower this time, more deliberate, alternating between sucking at her breast and continuing to mutter into her ear. She peaks again while Jon praises her sweetly, filthily, and she comes all the more intensely for it. She see’s white while her muscles clench so tightly she thinks they’re going to cramp, and all the while Jon is saying, “Your cunt is so sweet, and it’s all mine, isn’t it sweet Sansa, no one else gets to feel your cunt like this, no one but me gets to see you like this. Come on baby, I want to see you peak again, I want to see your face when your cunt clenches around my fingers.”

She lays against the table, panting, while Jon presses open mouthed kissed to her cheek, to her jaw, to her neck.

“Gods, Jon,” she pants, “that was . . .”

“And I haven’t even fucked you yet,” he chuckles.

A whine leaves her throat before she can stop it, and Jon might look surprised if he didn’t seem so pleased.

“Is that what you want, Sansa?” he says, in that murmuring tone that is so gentle, so dark, so godsdamned thrilling to her. “You want me to fuck you? You want me to stick my cock in your tight pussy?”

“Yes, yes,” she groans, shuddering towards him on the table, “please, Jon, I want it so badly.”

He lifts himself off her, giving her one last filthy kiss, all tongue and teeth and spit, and settles himself at the edge of the table. He finally pulls down his smallclothes and strokes himself a couple times, looking down at her, spread out on the table for him.

His body heaves with his deep breathing as he lines himself up to her. “Okay?” he pants, one hand braced on the edge of the table.

“Please,” she gasps, “gods yes, Jon, I need you now, please.”

He slides into her slowly, and there’s absolutely none of the pain she expected. There’s only pleasure, there’s only Jon, even when he stills above her as he bottoms out.

“Still okay?” he grunts out, and she’ll take the time later to appreciate it, but now she just needs him to move.

She rolls her hips and Jon swears under his breath but takes her bidding and starts to rut his hips. She keens at the feeling of him moving in and out of her, and she can’t quite believe just how good it feels. But it isn’t enough, not quite.

“Faster,” she requests with a husky tone of voice that she’s never heard from herself, that she doesn’t recognize.

“I can go faster, sweet girl, I can go harder, too.”

“Yes, please, _please,_ Jon, I need – I need -.”

She doesn’t know what she needs, but she _needs it so desperately._

He hooks her knees with his elbows then plants his hands either side of her, his body bent over hers on the table as he thrusts into her. The table creaks dangerously underneath each time he slams into her, but neither of them care.

“You feel so good, your cunt feels so fucking good, Sansa,” he praises, the wet sound of their skin slapping together the background to his words. “Tell me you feel good sweet girl, tell me how it feels.”

Her breath is choked in her throat at the overwhelming sensation of the way he fills her, how each time he slams back inside her it feels impossibly better than the last.

“So – Jon, _yes,_ I feel – you make me feel – don’t stop, don’t ever stop.”

“I won’t,” he swears, “you’re mine. Mine, Sansa. Tell me, tell me you’re mine.”

He sucks the top of her breast, teeth biting down, then laves over the spot with his tongue, nipping and sucking so fiercely she’ll bruise.

“I’m yours Jon, no one else’s.”

His mouth pops from her breast so he can take her lips with his. “And I’m yours,” he promises. One of his hands seeks hers out, and their fingers tangle together. “I’m never leaving you again, I’ll be by your side forever.”

He curls his body back down to take her nipple with his mouth. Her back arches from the table, a sharp cry spilling from her. His other hand seeks out her nub, rubbing in quick circles.

Her breath hitches in stilted gasps, strangled cries accompanying every thrust of his hips as heat pools in her belly yet again. Her nails dig down his back, scratching over the taut lines of his muscles, his raised scars.

“Come on sweet girl,” Jon husks, “I need you to peak for me. I want to feel you come around my cock.”

Her breathing stops as pleasure explodes from her core and out all the way into her fingertips and toes.

Their voices overlap as Jon groans out, “Yes, Sansa, fuck you’re so pretty when you peak, you feel so fucking good,” over her litany of _yes Jon Jon Jon yes._

Her knees relax from his ribs as she comes down the other side of her high, but Jon still pounds into her.

“Sansa, sweet girl, can I – can I spill -.”

She doesn’t know what he’s going to say, whether he’s going to ask to spill inside her or not, but she doesn’t care. If wants to fill her with his seed then _she_ wants that. If he wants to pull out and line her chest then he can do that, too.

“Yes,” she sighs sweetly, “yes, whatever you want, Jon.”

He groans, his sweat damp curls tickling her neck, then his pace stutters as he comes inside her.

Their harsh breathing fills the room as he stops completely, still curled over her. Sansa runs her fingertips up and down his spine continuously as he catches his breath. Jon pulls back from her, peppering kisses to her face and chest as he does so. She winces as he pulls out of her. His face clouds over.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, and before she can even answer he’s pressing light kisses to her knee, murmuring, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“ _Jon,”_ she says, exasperated, “you didn’t hurt me. I’m just . . . sensitive. Help me up.”

He doesn’t look entirely reassured, but he takes her hands as she offers them and pulls her up to sit on the edge. Paper sticks to her sweaty back, and she laughs as Jon picks the parchment off her.

“Probably should have cleared that,” Jon says with embarrassment, smiling ruefully at her.

“It’s fine,” she says, smiling, then steps off the table. Her legs buckle under her, a delicious ache settling at the apex of her thighs that’s going to make it hard to walk, she can tell.

Jon wraps his arms ‘round her waist as he chuckles.

“Seven hells, how am I supposed to walk to my bed chamber,” she mutters into his shoulder.

Jon is altogether too smug. “Is it bad that I’m too proud to care?”

Sansa pushes him away from her with a roll of her eyes, to which Jon just laughs again.

He helps her dress, and she helps him, then he offers her his arm. She slips her hand through the crook of his elbow and he escorts her from the room. Sansa takes small steps, finding that it makes everything hurt a bit less, which Jon finds too amusing for his own good, though Sansa notes that he’s as unsteady on his feet as she is.

The castle is completely quiet, everyone too tired for revels tonight – though she’s sure celebrations will echo over the hills tomorrow night – and there’s a cold chill blasting through the corridors, no doubt due to the castle’s severe lack of walls.

Sansa knows there’s a hot bath waiting for her in her bedchambers. She hopes that Jon will join her, but his mood darkens with every step he takes toward her chambers so she guesses he won’t.

By the time they stop outside her door, Sansa’s heart feels heavy.

“Where will you go?” she asks, wondering if he’s going to go to the Dragon Queen, or if he’ll just go to his own chambers.

A soft smile passes his face, and he leans over to her to press his forehead to hers. “I believe the first time you asked that question I told you that it’s _we_ now, Sansa.”

She breathes out a sigh of relief. She hadn’t meant to reminisce that moment; but that _he_ remembered makes her heart beat dangerously fast.

“Well,” she attempts to joke, though she knows she’s being purposefully provocative no matter how she frames, straightening back from him, “I can hardly join you in the Dragon Queen’s bed.”

He frowns. “Sansa, I wouldn’t – I haven’t here – it’s our _home_ – and I would _not_ now that we’re . . .”

His stumbled words are cute, but more than that Sansa _believes_ him.

“Okay,” she says softly, leaning in to lightly kiss him. “Okay.”

Their breath mixes together, visible in the cold air, then Jon pulls back to press a fierce kiss to her temple.

“I can’t stay here though.”

“I know.”

He smiles, grins really, a wolfish, cheeky grin. “But don’t think I don’t plan on warming your bed as soon as the opportunity arises,” he warns. “Now I’ve got a taste of you I won’t be able to go long without fucking you senseless into our marriage bed.”

He punctuates it with a quick slap to her arse, to which Sansa gasps in surprise.

“Marriage bed?” she manages to get out around her shock at his audacity.

He smiles, as if its obvious. “Well, sure,” he says easily. “Why would I want to be King in the North if I didn’t have you as my Queen?”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm queen of weird and clunky endings tbh but here we are anyway!


End file.
